From St Donats I drove to St Fagans. In Glamorgan, every other village was named after a saint, at least you got that impression; did that imply that our ancestors were pious to the point of sainthood, or in desperate need of spiritual guidance? If my ancestors were anything to go by, the answer lay with the latter, without any doubt.
I found Alan at home, in his study. He was typing up a manuscript, his theories on psychology. Although he was well qualified, he’d resisted all offers to write a book, claiming a lack of time. However, a publisher had badgered him into submission with the promise of an open deadline. Although it might take Alan a while to write his book, when finished, that book would be an impressive tome, in terms of content and volume.
I waited for Alan to complete his paragraph, leaned forward to kiss him then said, “I’ve traced Vittoria.”
He smiled, “I knew you would.”
“She’s damaged, emotionally and physically.” I sat on an old armchair, covered with a decorative throw. The throw contained a diamond pattern and a range of autumnal colours; it offered a pleasing contrast to the plain magnolia walls. I said, “I’d like to know what caused that damage.”
Alan squinted at the computer screen. He made a minor adjustment to his manuscript then said, “I’m sure Vincent Vanzetti can afford a support team of helpers; one of them, a psychologist perhaps, could help Vittoria.”
“She doesn’t want to see her father, or talk with him, or any of her family.”
Alan paused. He turned to face me then frowned. “I see.”
“I promised Vittoria that I’d protect her; Mac is with her to keep her family off her back.”
Alan’s frown deepened. Concern clouded his sympathetic brown eyes. “Their reaction?”
“Not pleased. They’re leaning on me, especially Vanzetti.”
He nodded. “So you’re caught between a rock and a hard place.”
I grimaced. “And feeling the squeeze.”
Alan closed the computer programme. The screen reverted to its screensaver, a picture of yours truly. I was smiling in that picture, as you do, looking young and happy. Come to think of it, I was still relatively young and blissfully happy, save for the sword of Damocles Vanzetti had placed over my head. While I pondered that point, Alan swivelled in his chair and asked, “You think that someone in the Vanzetti household is behind Vittoria’s condition?”
“She doesn’t want to see them. That suggests something, surely. They all have something about them, something threatening. I mean, Catrin is a hard woman, as hard as granite; V.J. is a boxer, which suggests natural aggression; and Vanzetti is, well, Vanzetti, a man who’d order your execution, if it suited his needs.”
“And what about Sherri?” Alan asked.
“Despite her movie background, Sherri is quite sweet and innocent. However, she’s so sweet and innocent you sense that she could do something without thinking, something dangerous; do you know what I mean?”
Alan offered a rueful smile and nodded. “I could present you with a list of serial killers who looked like angels. And show-offs are often immature and emotional. Some have aggressive traits that they express through violence. There’s a saying, ‘the expressive can become aggressive.’ There’s a label some psychologists attach to people: Histrionic Personality Disorder. People with HPD will do anything to get attention and their emotions tend to be extreme. Their personal lives are often turbulent and they can come across as living caricatures. Many actors, performers and politicians display strong HPD traits. Sufferers crave approval and are terrified of rejection. What I’m saying is, don’t take Sherri at face value; to understand her, look beyond her flamboyant displays.”
“The sweetest saints can often be the wickedest sinners,” I said.
Alan nodded. “It happens; in fact, it’s a common trait. In life, we need a balance; over-generous behaviour is often balanced by acts that are dark in the extreme.”
“I’m not sure how Sherri could have harmed Vittoria,” I said, “but something might have happened between them.”
We lapsed into silence and pondered that point. As Alan mulled over my words, he gazed at a picture, a painting, depicting a coalminer’s cottage. The cottage represented an ancestral home. A relative had painted the picture, which reminded me of Alan’s humble roots.
“Vittoria needs someone to talk with,” I said. “She needs you.”
Alan turned. He offered me a cautious frown. “Wait a minute, Sam.”
“As a favour to me, please.”
He shook his head; I wasn’t the only one in this household who could be stubborn.
“I can’t just jump in on her unannounced,” Alan said, “psychology doesn’t work like that. Psychology works best when the client approaches the psychologist.”
“But sometimes a sticking plaster is needed,” I said. “I’m not asking you to instigate a cure, whatever that means, just apply a sticking plaster until Vittoria can seek help for herself.”
“She might resent my interference,” Alan said, closing his computer. “I might make matters worse.”
“You won’t, I know you. You’ll make her feel better about herself. You made me feel better about myself. If you can do that for me, you can do that for anyone.”
Alan smiled. He gave his finely-trimmed beard a thoughtful caress. “That was through love, not psychology.”
“No,” I insisted, “it was through you, through the person you are. You offer something to people, something I can’t explain, something intangible. To describe that something as an aura would be too fanciful. But you do have a presence; a calming, reassuring presence, and when people meet you, they respond. Besides, Vittoria is into psychology; she’s studying child psychology; I’m sure she’ll respond to you.”
“I’m not sure,” Alan replied cautiously.
“Please,” I begged, “if only to get Vanzetti off my back.”
Alan stared through the window, into the forest, into the woodland at the rear of his house. A river ran beyond the woodland, added a sense of serenity, a sense of tranquillity to the beautiful, sylvan scene. “Vanzetti’s a dangerous man,” Alan mused.
“He is,” I agreed. “If Vittoria offers her consent, will you do it?”
Alan nodded. “For you, I will.”